


⎬⪧revenge⪦⎨

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Clawing at Own Throat, Dark, Gen, Horror, Mental Health Issues, Poetic, Poetic Minor Character Death but He's Alive in the Afterlife, Self-Mutilation that Leads to Death, Suicide, Violence, rhythm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Stalwart blade at his side, he vanished out the door. Off to find one Malcolm Bright to dim him once for all.This has a rhythmic, poetic, horror style. So darker subjects, yes, but comes off Poe-sian.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Clawing at Own Throat.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	⎬⪧revenge⪦⎨

**Author's Note:**

  * For [windr-boy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=windr-boy), [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



> i wrote the first three paragraphs as a bit of a joke during flash fics earlier, and Jameena wanted the whole story in the same style. sooooo this one's for you, friend <3 can't believe ya got me to do this hehehe :) <3 ya for that. 
> 
> bthb prompt was requested by windr-boy

Crossed his name with marking pen, two and three and four. Drove it through until it bled ten pages down or more. Would he die in someone’s arms draining to the street? Or would he go more quietly, not a soul to see?

Whole picture blacked, he closed the cap, put away the pen. But the man kept staring back — he ripped the page to shreds. Tiny falling pieces floating to the floor. Ground in with a weary sole until there were no more.

Stalwart blade at his side, he vanished out the door. Off to find one Malcolm Bright to dim him once for all.

* * *

Noon into the precinct, Bright didn’t get a rest. Gil was waiting for him, case file tight into his chest. “We need to go to Harlem — murder suicide. Vic’s the mayor’s nephew.” They headed out to drive.

Ten feet from the entrance, a grin upon his face, Bright returned the cheer right back, continued on his way. A swishing swoop across his neck, turned to a swan dive. A vicious burst of lively red, hands grabbing, clawed for life.

Answer was a taller man pressing jacket to his neck. Dialing instead of following, he retreated without attack. Back to a healthy distance he could spy the ending scene. A thousand angels, watching, waiting, bathing a grisly sheen.

“Meet them, _please_ , he’s dying,” man shouted to a curly friend. Her color faded as much as his, emptying around the bend. Sirens came so quickly the screeching piqued his knees. His head popped up overtop to find them fleeing from the street.

Then there was nothing — only a crimson river flowed behind mixing with dust, and dirt, and leaves, and anything else it could find. He didn’t get the glorious moment of one last gasp for breath, clutching at his throat until all the air had left.

He wasn’t dead — the greedy bastard found someway to cling to life. He wasn’t a blackened piece of paper to be burned and tossed aside. He’d failed his mortal duty — what a meager, vile disgrace. He took his whacks and with a slash, drew upon his face.

Dug for a younger man stabbed by an ornery kid. Scratched for time passed locked tight in crates and bins. Deep as he did quarry, he only felt the tip. Slick sacrifice beguiled fingers, but the demons wouldn’t quit.

On the ground a searching for solace in the sky. But the angels left already, at Little Malcolm's side. He slipped to molten rivers, wicked grin on bloody lips. Ragged sailing to the after on a wily junkyard ship.

Axe-flipped with the devil, confirmed he’d done his time. The gates of hell did open, and so he walked inside. Sat in a darkened corner, slowly removed his socks. Stretched out in great comfort, only heard sharp clicking of a lock.

Flash — he tried the door. Smash — he hit the gate. Wham and shit and fire and grit he tore into a spate. Couldn’t make a dent, couldn’t take a peek outside, couldn’t believe he’d toiled and cleaved only to be trapped after life.

Warmth it swirled around him, promised company unclaimed. Countless years of sweat and tears he lived all his days in chains.

* * *

Bright woke a clasping for hidden demons at his throat. Grasped dressings ’til his fingers were grabbed and enclosed in gentle hands to guide him through the pain. “Watkins didn’t win, kid.” And Bright’s eyes closed again.

Friends rotated through the room staying valiantly at his side. “No more lemon jello —” pleas to avoid a sugar high. He ate it anyway, a huge grin returning to his face. “That’s our Bright,” the team agreed — light the villain couldn’t erase.

On dark days he left a candle glowing for his father’s friend. Memory of John Watkins — begrudging, broken, lonely man.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
